Sick of Being Stupid
by Jay Nice
Summary: Dean's just stupid. That's all he'll ever be in his father's eyes. He can't ever seem to do anything right. Pre-series, weechesters, sick!Dean, now a two-shot
1. Chapter 1

**I don't know, this just sorta... happened.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sam or Dean or John, as much as I really want to hug Dean and slap John...**

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><p>"Look at you. I can't believe you were clumsy enough to trip, leaving your bother unprotected against that spirit." John Winchester's words held pure venom, making Dean cringe. "Now he has a concussion because of you. How could you possibly be so stupid?"<p>

Dean let out a shakey breath. "Sorry, sir," he said, making sure not to be too loud as to wake his sleeping brother in the backseat. Though how he was still resting through John's scream-fest was a mystery.

John clenched his jaw. "Sorry isn't going to cut it this time. You're lucky I got there when I did, or else Sammy would be gone right now."

Dean swallowed down the bile rising in his throat. _But why weren't you there when the ghost was attacking us in the first place? _Dean wanted to say, but thought better of it as his dad was already furious, and he didn't think his voice would work at that point. Hot tears sprang in his eyes at his father's harsh criticism, but he refused to let them fall. If any of them did fall down his too pale cheeks, he would claim it to injury. His ankle was throbbing and swelling like something nasty, and Dean had a bad feeling that it was fractured, or at least very badly sprained. A gnarled tree root had been in his path when running to help Sam (why were there always big tree roots in graveyards?), and he'd fallen, unable to get up. Walking to the car felt like getting hit by a bus, and it was a miracle he'd even made it to the passenger seat. His dad had been too busy helping Sammy to notice his eldest limping.

His dad was right. He _had _been especially stupid. How could he let his guard down like that? He'd run obstacle courses with much more hazards to face, and now he was tripped up by a freaking tree root? That was possibly the dumbest move ever. Next time, he'd be more cautious. He couldn't afford a massive screw-up like this again.

Dean leaned against the window, praying for relief in his ankle. It had taken up a burning feel, making Dean want to scream in agony. He tried to breath through the pain, but that only induced nausea.

"Hey kiddo, you alright?" John asked, voice softer but still holding a sharp accusation.

Dean nodded, not trusting himself to open his mouth, lest he vomit all over the Impala. That would just make his dad even more angry with him. He would let his dad fix up his ankle when they got back to the motel. He was fine for now.

Though Dean didn't see it, he could tell that John shrugged. "Okay, but just tell me beforehand if you're gonna hurl."

Flinching at the word 'hurl,' Dean snuggled his body closer to the window, relishing the coolness of the window. He could hold up until they got back. Gazing blearily out the window, Dean sighed and nade a promise to himself to quit being as stupid. Maybe his dad would be proud of him then.

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><p>"Hey, idiot, watcha do to your foot?" By the overwhelming scent of cigarettes and B.O., Dean instantly recognized the guy who'd just stolen his cardboard pizza as Kurt Johnson. Dean glared at him from across the table, internally trying to keep himself from throttling the guy.<p>

"Tripped trying to get away from you," he spat back, almost ready to just grab his crutches and get out, honestly not in the mood for his daily tormenter. "Go away, before I make you."

Kurt smirked. "Sorry, Dean-o, but I don't think you're up to it. Until your boo-boo's all healed up, there's nothing you can do to stop me." Just to make his point, he snatched away Dean's milk carton, too. As if Dean was actually going to drink that.

Dean ignored him, instead focusing on the cafeteria clock. Was there anyway he could will the minutes to go by faster?

"Hey, you look at me when I'm talking to you!" Dean's face was suddenly grabbed and pulled towards Kurt's, forcing Dean to become way too well acquainted with the bully's odious breath. He tried to pull away, but the grip on his jaw was too tight. "You're so stupid, Dean. A doofus, that's all you are."

Dean had honestly expected a punch, but Kurt and his gang only walked away after that, leving Dean to rub his jaw and try to hobble out of those poorly designed cafeteria benches. Closing his eyes to breath for a moment, Dean found both his father's and Kurt's words reverberating around his head. _Stupid._

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><p>Dad left two days after their hunt, saying he'd caught wind of a vamp nest a few hours out. When Dean had begged to be brought along, he was shot down because of his healing ankle and the fact that he had to watch over Sammy. It was fair, he guessed. If Dean went, then so did Sammy, and since Dean hadn't been on a vampire hunt yet, he doubted his dad wanted ten year-old Sam to be exposed to that. Spirits were one thing, as John always said, but monsters can be ten times as dangerous. Dean understood, as there were so many types of monsters in the world that often you'd think it was a shifter when it was actually a rakshasa. The tiniest mistakes could be fatal.<p>

All that, or maybe Dad just didn't want to hunt with him anymore. He _had _screwed up the last one.

"Dean, can we go to the library now?" Sam asked for what had to be the thousandth time since they'd arrived home from school.

"Dude, just what is so important about the library?" Dean growled, holding his pulsating head. He was trying to figure out how he could come up with this week's rent, as John hadn't left even close to the amount needed to pay for the motel, not to mention food. As always.

"My teacher says we gotta do a book report on a book we've never read, and I've read all of my books." Sam's large, hazel eyes peered at his brother from the other side of their small kitchenette. "Can we please go?"

Dean sighed. "Maybe in a bit. Don't you have homework you need to do or something?"

"I finished it all already." If Dean hadn't been so stressed, he might have grinned at the accomplished look on Sammy's face. The kid was too cute for his own good.

"I'll take you later," Dean conceded. "Chill out, geek boy."

Sam stuck out his tongue at his brother, before skipping away to see what was on their five channels of cable TV. Dean sighed, wishing for the intense pain in his ankle to go away. He didn't know if he'd be able to make it to the library, crutches or not. John Winchester had deemed it fractured, but only a bit. Dean was supposed to not put any weight on it, lest he wanted it wrapped to thrice its size for six more weeks. They were almost out of Advil, which greatly worried Dean since it was the only thing that took the pain away, if not for a little while. Add that to their ever growing shopping list.

Dean rose from his seat at the rough card table that served as a dining table and got himself a glass of water. The tap water went down his throat roughly, and didn't seem to help how crappy he was feeling. He longed for another pill since a migraine was beginning now, but he forced himself to ration them out until Dad got back and they could grab some more.

"Wake me up in a few hours," Dean called to Sammy, who was idly flipping though the monotonous programs that were running. He limped over to his and Sam's shared bed, feeling some weight be lifted from him as he let himself drift into the pillows. He hadn't been getting very much sleep since the hunt, and he was bound to get less now that Dad was gone. He didn't know what about Dad going on a hunt worsened his insomnia. Maybe his subconscious was worrying, or maybe he just missed his dad.

He didn't realize he'd fallen asleep until Sam shook him awake. Dean groaned, sleep muffling all of his senses. Glancing at the clock, he noticed that it read six pm. Dang, he'd slept for two hours and still felt as tired as before.

"Dean, the library closes at seven, can we go now?" Sam pleaded, shooting Dean his signature puppy dog eyes.

"Why not?" Dean replied gruffly, grabbing Sam's proffered arm to help him stand and get to his crutches. He meekly rubbed the sleep out of his eyes; he was really too exhausted to head out right now, but he knew he needed to do this for Sammy.

They set their pace slowly to compensate for Dean's injury, and barely made it to the library before closing time. Dean pretended not to notice the stange looks they got from adults as both boys walked out together, one barely able to walk, with no adults with them. He pretended not to hear the concerned murmurings between librarians. What did they know, anyway? Nothing.

The walk back took even longer, as Dean's ankle was starting to throb nearly unbearably. When they returned, Dean made sure he resalted the door before collapsing back onto his bed. It didn't matter that Sam was still watching a program when he should have been going to bed. Dean trusted the kid to get to bed at a responsible time.

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><p>The one nice thing about his crutches was the fact that he got to use the elevator to get to class. Yes, it was extremely slow, but he normally had the whole thing to himself. Anything was great if it meant avoiding Kurt as much as he could.<p>

The guy didn't like to leave him alone at lunch, however, when he could flaunt his new punching bag to his cronies. Well, he hadn't exactly punched Dean yet, but Dean always sensed that he was dangerously close to physical abuse.

If Dean was in perfect health, he would beat this guy to a pulp in no time at all. It was how he normally solved his bully problems. But now the fact that his right leg was useless, along with the feeling that a hatchet was ingrained in his skull, were impairing him from doing so. Oh, how this guy deserved a clobbering.

"Did you hear how dumb this kid was in English today?" went Kurt's newest insult. "Teach asked him a question, and he just blurted out the stupidest crap I've ever heard."

Dean's cheeks burned in embarrassment, not bringing himself to point out that the only way Kurt knew that was because he was stuck in ninth-grade English, instead of eleventh-grade where he belonged. If anything, Kurt was the stupid one.

It was true Dean hadn't known the answer. He'd never been that good at reading, finally learning how to in second-grade via the special classes he's been forced into. He was better at math and science, earning his highest marks in those two classes. Sammy was naturally bright, a gift Dean wished he'd gotten. His baby brother had even skipped the fourth-grade, putting him in his first year of middle school now. Dean was so proud of the kid, only the tiniest bit envious that he didn't have those brains. Sammy's never gotten less than an A on his reports, while Dean had never gotten above a B. He was just naturally stupid, he figured.

That'd explain why Dad was never happy with him, but always praised Sammy. Sam deserved all the acclamation he received, so that's why Dean never got any. Still, he longed to be hugged by his dad like he used to be. He wanted his dad to be proud, but no matter how hard he worked he was always a diappointment in John Winchester's eyes.

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><p>He figured he was getting ill when he woke up with a killer sore throat and his head pounding as if Lars Ulrich was playing a drum solo in there. He choked down the watery oatmeal that was some of the only food they had left in their posession before packing Sammy's lunch with an apple and a the last leftover slice of cold pizza. When checking their food stores, Dean was appalled to see that they had exactly one tiny, snack-sized bag of Fritos, a half of a can of Spaghetti-O's, and two packets of ramen noodles. Rent was due this Sarurday, three days from now, and there wasn't even enough money for that. Dean groaned, massaging his temples in hope to relieve some of the pressure in his skull. He didn't have to time to get sick, not now.<p>

He made a decision to cut school that day in order to rest up. He made sure Sammy got on the bus, then started hobbling to the conveniance store on the corner. He left his crutches at home, figuring that they were too bulky and it wasn't that far of a walk. He was wearing an extra baggy jacket that John had gotten him by accident when he'd misjudged Dean's size, but it proved to be useful. He scoured the the store for cheap food items that he could actually buy with what little money he had, along with stuffing some of the other necessities inside his jacket. More medicine, for one.

The clerk looked at him curiously when he bought three marked down cans of some Chef Boyardee dinner, but didn't say anything as he paid with crumpled bills. He limped heavily out the door and back to the motel, glad that he had scored some more pain meds along with a small loaf of bread and jar of peanut butter with the five finger discount. It wasn't much, but hopefully it would suffice until Dad returned. Dean's stomach growled almost painfully, but he only dry-swallowed three Advil and made himself fall back to sleep.

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><p>If anything, his nap only made him feel worse. His joints were achey, his migraine had seemingly doubled in intensity, and chills wracked his body. His ankle was now the least of his worries. Dean was afraid that if he looked in the mirror he'd see the stark pallor of his face and fever-flushed cheeks. He was sick now, there was no denying it. All he wanted at this point was for his father to return home and do all he could do to make Dean feel better.<p>

But Dean had to take care of Sammy. He could push through this petty cold, it's not like he was _that_ sick. Checking the time, Dean saw that he had about an hour before Sam got back. Sighing in defeat, Dean grabbed the old rotary phone that this place somehow still implemented with a shakey hand and started dialing his father's cell number. He listened to it ring for a while, before he reached voicemail. _"This is John Winchester, leave your problem at the tone and I'll get back to you..." _

"Dad..." Dean's voice sounded even worse than he thought it did. He winced as he swallowed, hating the scratchy feeling. "Uh, it's Dean. We're seriously low on cash and food, and I think Sammy might be picking up a bug... I don't really know what to do, so if you could just call us back, please."

He hung up the phone, cradling his head in his hands. He hated surrendering, but there was only so much he could do. He wanted his dad home so he could take care of them like a father was supposed to do. Dean shouldn't have to steal so they had enough food to eat, or be trying to scrounge up the money to pay rent at their two-star motel with its funky stains and smells. He'd thought that saying Sammy was the one sick would make his dad haul butt back here but it was no use. His dad would never leave a hunt at such short notice. He was so stupid for thinking that he might.

Dean curled up on the bed again, tears spilling out of his eyes. That's all he was. Stupid.

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><p>Sam was home. Dean understood that through his fevered haze. He didn't know how long it had been since he'd gotten back, but he knew that it was probably near dinner time and Sammy was most likely hungry.<p>

There was a cool presence on Dean's forehead. He sighed in relief. It felt so good. His skin was surely bubbling due to the scorching heat radiating from him. He might have moaned as he shifted in his sweaty sheets. He was all gross and sticky, but he didn't want to move. He just wanted to sleep forever.

"Dean, are you awake?" Unfortunately, his plans were foiled as Sammy's voice, wonderfully soft, broke through the comfortable silence.

"Gnnnh," was the sound that escaped from Dean's mouth. His head had chosen this moment to resume its rhythmic pounding, causing Dean to bury himself deeper into the comforters.

"Uh, okay." Was it just Dean's way too warm brain, or did Sam sound really worried? "Dean, do I need to call 9-1-1? Cause you're really scaring me."

Great, now he was scaring his baby brother. How much could he mess up in a week? Too much, it seemed,

"'M fine," Dean choked out, cringing when his throat exploded in pain. "Sammy, I'm 'kay."

Dean cracked open an eye, grateful to see that the lights were off and the blinds were drawn shut. Sam was looking at him, face drawn up sorrow at seeing his brother so ill. "Dean, you're not okay. At least let me try to call Dad."

"Hmm." Dean shifted, trying to get a better view of his brother. "Already done."

"And?"

Dean's eyes slipped closed again. "Voicemail."

He heard Sam sigh in exasperation, before the ten year-old offered, "Should I call Pastor Jim? Dad says to call him when he's late getting home, so why not now?"

"Too far 'way," Dean slurred. They were in New Hampshire (or was it Maine? Dean's muddled brain couldn't recall all the details correctly), and Jim was all the way in Blue Earth, Minnesota. That was at least a day's drive, and the Pastor surely had better things to do than pick up the Winchester boys when their daddy's neglected them.

"Dean..." Sammy's voice trailed off, as he was unsure of what argument to pursue. Dean drifted off again when no more words were uttered. He wasn't exactly asleep, but in a peaceful state betwen awareness and sleep. His headache was going to murder him, he knew, but at least it dulled with rest.

He didn't know how long he'd slept, but judging by the eerie silence of the motel room, Sammy was sleeping. Dean tried weakly to sit up, slowly shuffling out of bed to find the Advil. His ankle was swollen again and barely supporting his weight, but he made it to the table where all of his store goods laid. He wasn't paying attention to how many pills he popped into his mouth.

Then a scratching noise caught his attention.

He was shivering wildly, showing that his fever wasn't down at all, so he very well may have been hallucinating. Squinting his eyes in concentration as he began the trek back to his bed, Dean realized that he could hear the sound again. It sounded as if a drunk person was trying to insert their key into the keyhole. A small ray of hope fluttered in Dean's chest. Could it be his dad coming back?

But then the noise ceased, and Dean went back to bed.

He woke up what seemed like mere moments later to someone shaking him awake again. Dean shied away from the hands, whimpering softly. He didn't want to be bothered.

The shaking became more persistant, and Dean was forced to peek through his too-heavy lids. He expected Sammy, but instead saw a taller, darker figure. He couldn't make out the face in the pitch black.

"Hey, kiddo," the soft voice murmured. Dean's eyes widened almost comically. It was his dad. Dad had cut the hunt short and come back for them.

"Dad?" he rasped. He needed to make sure it was really him, not just a figment of his imagination.

John chuckled softly. "Yup. Looks like it wasn't Sammy coming down with the bug." He placed his hand on Dean's forehead, measuring his warmth. "You take some meds for that fever?"

"Just Advil." His dad's hand felt so cool upon his face, and he was disappoited when it left his forehead. He turned his whole body towards his dad, wishing in that moment that he would heal all ailments.

Dad grunted. "Doesn't look like that helped much. Anything hurt?"

Dean nodded, reminded suddenly of the rock band in his head and the angry pulsing of his ankle. "Head, foot." He swallowed roughly. "Throat."

"Okay." John was silent for a moment, probably assessing the situation. Dean listened to the comforting, steady breathing of his father. Just having the man around him made him feel a little bit better already. John sat down on the edge of the bed and said, "Come here, Dean."

Dean recognized an order, so he scooched towards his dad's voice. He found himself enveloped in his dad's arms, washed over by the familiar scent of leather and gunpowder. John was murmuring things that Dean couldn't make out, but he didn't care. He let out a sigh of relief as he was allowed to snuggle into his dad's shoulder, safe in his arms. He wanted to stay there for forever.

John shifted down in the bed, and so did Dean. Before he knew it, he found himself completely laying down, still in his dad's arms. And he fell asleep feeling safe for the first time in ten years. His dad could protect him and take care of thngs, even when Dean couldn't.

Before he completely drifted off, Dean muttered, "'M sorry." His dad was probably extremely frustrated that he had to leave the hunt to get his son, his fourteen year-old son who should be able to take care of things.

But instead of harsh criticism as was expected, John replied, "It's okay, son. It wasn't your fault."

Dean smiled at his father's words, before cuddling closer and falling asleep.

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><p><strong>There was my fic that took me just less than a day to write! I apologize for any spelling or grammatical errors, I typed up this whole thing on an iPad..<strong>

**Please leave a review! I love to hear you comments, questions, concerns, criticism, hates, flames, and death threats!**


	2. Chapter 2

**So, there were requests for a second chapter to this story, and I hope I did alright!**

**Thank you to Guest, keraell , and dljensengirl88 for reviewing!**

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><p>Besides the nonstop vomiting and the remnants of a splitting headache, Dean couldn't remember anything that had happened while he was sick. He remembered his dad holding him in his arms the night he'd gotten back (because how could he forget that?), but past that everything was just a big blur. Finally, after what had to be day five or six, Dean felt the meds his dad had scored him starting to kick in. He started to be able to keep some foods down, and though most still came up, it was a slight relief as the constant puking did <em>not<em> help his sore throat. His dad was still taking care of him, but all Dean wanted to do was to sleep in his arms again. He'd felt so warm and protected. He missed that feeling.

But hugs weren't going to happen, he could tell. As his health improved, his father had less a need to keep coddling Dean. He figured his dad would only show affection when a son truly needed it.

But, dang it, did Dean need it now.

He wanted to feel _wanted_. Like he wasn't just a soldier in his dad's corps. Like his dad actually loved him. Like Dean wasn't just a stupid, disappointment of a son.

Sammy always got Dad's praise. Whether it was good grades or being a well-behaved kid while Dad was gone, Sam got all the kind words, all the acclamation.

Dean looked down distastefully at his soup. He still felt like crap, though not so much like run-over crap. His stomach churned in warning as a vaporous wave of heat rolled off of the soup. His head pounded in agreement: there was to be no food eaten at this moment, unless Dean wanted to watch it make a reappearance in the porcelain bowl. He rose from the couch, still wobbling heavily on his bad ankle, and dumped the chicken noodle in the sink. He didn't even like that kind anyways.

Dad was on a supply run, going to get more food that Dean might be able to stomach and Gatorade, which seemed to be the only drink that stayed down. Dean was left in the same motel they'd been staying at since they'd moved here, stuck with his festering germs and that gnarled looking mold growth in the shower. Throat lozenges and their wrappers were scattered all over the place, as well as sweat-soaked blankets and Advil bottles. Dean still had a fever, it settling at 100.3 and not refusing to go down. He guessed that in the midst of all this they were extremely lucky that Sammy hadn't caught whatever Dean had. Hopefully he didn't.

Dean rested his head down on the kitchen table, closing his eyes slowly. He probably had some kind of flu, since it wasn't gone by now. That would explain why he felt like he was dying. Also Sammy had gotten the flu earlier this year, so maybe it was the same strain and he was immune. Breathing a deep breath through slightly rumbling lungs, Dean let his consciousness drift off. He was _so_ tired...

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><p>John Winchester walked into his motel room, nose crinkling at the ever-staying smell of sickness. He had bought out the pharmacy, taking whatever they had fighting cold and flu. Liquid, pills, nighttime, daytime, drowsy, non-drowsy. He'd give Dean all of them if it meant him finally getting over this sickness. John's heart went out for the kid; he'd been in and out of it for days, barely coherent, and now that he was feeling better, John was taking that as a sign that things were going to work out for once. Except that he had a stubborn fever that wouldn't break, and the vomiting was a constant threat that could easily lead to dehydration. With all of his being, John wished he could take away all aliments and make his baby boy feel better again.<p>

He entered the room, smiling softly as he saw Dean passed out over the table. The kid looked peaceful, so much that John didn't want to wake him. His face was still far too pale, making his freckles stand out like dirt scattered across his skin. Judging by the way his eyebrows were creased even in his sleep, he still had one heck of a headache.

Dean hadn't been getting much sleep, so John wasn't really keen to wake him. However, he needed medicine in order to feel better. Slowly, John nudged Dean's shoulder. Dean groaned in his sleep, eyes flicking wildly under his lids. He drowsily opened one eyes after another, looking up at his father in undisguised agony. Poor kid.

"I got you some more meds, we'll see if these can kick this bug." Dean blinked in response. John began rummaging through his bag, and asked, "Pills or liquid?"

"Pills." John knew it was a dumb question, as both of them knew that pills stayed down better, but he wanted to ask anyway, just in case Dean's throat was too sore to swallow anything today. Also, the liquid stuff tasted like another form of torture.

"Alright then... Headache still, right?" Dean cringed and nodded stiffly. John grunted in acknowledgement. "Fever, sore throat, vomiting. That about sum it up?"

"Yeah." Dean's voice was soft and garbled, but at least it was there. The last thing John needed was a sick kid who couldn't tell him what was wrong.

John fished out a package of pills, it covering all of Dean's symptoms and then some. "Here, take some of this." Dean obeyed, blindly taking whatever his father was handing him, but his motions were slow as if he were still half asleep. John was about to grab him a glass of water, but Dean swallowed all three dry. That must have done wonders to his throat. "You wanna drink something?" He shook his head. "Did you eat that soup?" Another negative response. John sighed, rubbing his forehead. "Okay, kiddo, I can't have you getting dehydrated, and you haven't eaten much all week, so you need to be taking what I give you."

"I know," Dean whispered. "I just didn't want to puke again."

John winced at his son's defeated tone, feeling ashamed at reprimanding his son in this state. He couldn't criticize him; he would have done the same thing if it meant avoiding vomiting. Praying kneeled to the porcelain god was not fun at all.

"I'm sorry, Dean. It's okay." John rubbed his son's back. The fourteen year-old closed his eyes again and relaxed under his father's touch. "But promise me you'll eat something later, okay?"

There was a long hesitation, but Dean nodded. John kept his hand on his son, as it seemed to soothe him. Before he knew it, Dean had fallen asleep again.

John had never been good at taking care of his sons when they were sick. Dean would always help Sammy, and vice versa. John had minimal experience in caring for sick kids. It had always been Mary's job to soothe a fevered forehead or keep them calm through bouts of sickness. John's more hardened, rugged nature didn't allow for him to do those things as easily. Still, though, he tried.

"Dean-o," he whispered, shaking his son slightly. When he saw him begin to stir, he continued, "No, you don't have to wake up. I'm just gonna move you back to the bed."

His only response was a deep sigh, and so John lifted him out of the rigid chair and carried him all the way back to his spot on the bed. He didn't miss how Dean tucked his head into the crook of his father's neck, like he used to do when he was four. John blinked the sorrowful tears out of his eyes as memories of his past life before all of this crap surfaced. No, he couldn't think of this now. He had more pressing issues now, like making sure his son stopped puking his guts out. The transfer to the bed almost didn't work, as Dean was growing in height everyday, but he accomplished it. After tucking Dean under his mountainous blankets, John went to watch the telly before his son woke up again, whether from an oncoming wave of puking or just general discomfort. John could only hope that this new medicine would kick the illness's tail. The label had said that it was extra strong stuff, so maybe it could put this nightmare behind them.

John got to watch a whole hour segment of news before a rustling sound caught his attention. He looked to his son to see him a moving lump under his fifty pounds of covers. Looks like whatever rest he'd been getting was over now.

He made his way over to Dean. He was blinking sluggishly up at his father, and John was alarmed to how ragged his breathing was becoming. That, along with constant swallowing, could be a sign that he was about to puke. "Dean? You alright?"

"Yeah." He looked at his dad through not-as-glassy eyes. "I think that new stuff's working. My head isn't about to explode as much."

"That's an improvement." John nodded, mentally patting himself on the back. Finally, he got something right. "You feel up to a Gatorade or can of soup?"

Dean shrugged. "I dunno, maybe."

John knelt down and felt his son's forehead. "You know what? I think your fever may have gone down a bit." Now that he was closely scrutinizing Dean, he noticed the fine sheen of sweat across his face, indicating that his fever had broken. Thank goodness. It was about time. "Let's try some drink. Red or blue?"

Dean's face shone with the smallest grin. "Blue, of course."

"Right, right." John chuckled, grabbing the requested bottle of Gatorade for his son to sip on. Later he'd force down some soup, but right now he'd settle for Dean willingly drinking something. "I forgot, your mutated taste buds don't like the red."

"You're the mutant one, red tastes like licking the sidewalk," Dean shot back, slowly pushing himself into a sitting position. John helped him, as his arms had to be weak and shaky. His heart warmed when Dean looked at him gratefully, and he handed him the drink. Dean shuffled out of his blankets, no doubt feeling the heat of his fading fever now. He drank one or two sips, before setting the drink down. John was relieved to see some of the lost color returning to his face.

John checked his watch. 2 pm, Sammy would be getting home in an hour or so. "Hey, you might want to rest up a bit more before you-know-who gets here."

"Yeah, good idea." Dean took a few more swigs of his drink before sinking back into bed, kicking all covers to the side. "Can... can you turn the air on or something?" John heard the clear hesitation in his son's voice, as if asking him this simple task was forbidden and he was going to get beaten for it. "It's getting really hot in here."

"That's your fever," John said. "I can get you a cool rag, if it'll make you feel better."

Dean looked down. "Nah, it's fine. I'm fine."

John nearly snorted. Dean looked anything but 'fine'. "Okay, I'll turn the air on, see if it helps at all. You sleep, you can have more drugs when you wake up."

Dean nodded, before closing his eyes again. The room was filled with no sound but his soft snore. John tried turning the motel room's A/C unit on, but it merely sputtered and died. So much for that idea.

At least he was sleeping now, his body finally healing itself. John couldn't ask for anything more.

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><p>As the days went on, the extra-strength medicine kicked Dean's illness out of his system, and John was glad to see his baby boy begin to eat relatively solid foods and talk without wincing at his sore throat. His headache he could not shake, however, but John knew that would last for a while even after he was fully healed. John started searching for hints again, knowing that he could resume his job now that Dean was back to his normal self. Sammy had managed to not pick up the bug, much to John's relief. He could handle a sick Dean who was reclusive and chose to rest during his enlistment, but Sammy whined at every little thing that was bothering him and never sought to leave his caretaker's full and undivided attention. Dean closed in on himself while sick, but Sam exploded in a loud tornado that sucked everything and everyone in to help and make him feel better.<p>

John squinted at the newspaper in front of him, entitled "Group of Campers Mauled in Bear Attack." It looked like it could possibly be a wendigo, since said "bear" had been attacking campers on a steady cycle. He was trying to examine the minimal clues that the article listed when Dean came up to him and whispered in his still hoarse voice, "You're leaving soon?"

John eyed him cautiously. Dean was swaying slightly, trying to remain upright on his busted ankle, and his eyebrows were furrowed in concentration and slight headache. The boy looked lonely, lost, though he tried to hide it through a brave mask he'd put over himself.

"Yeah, I think so." John saw Dean's face fall a bit, though barely noticeable if John hadn't been observing him closely. "Why, what's up?"

"Don't know, just wondering." And with that, Dean walked away.

John frowned. Something was off with Dean. His son_ never _questioned his orders, yet he had just upright disapproved of John's going on another hunt. He might not have said it verbally, but John had seen his disappointment.

However, instead of dwelling on it, John went back to analyzing the wendigo.

* * *

><p>"Dad's gonna be really mad, Dean."<p>

Dean swallowed thickly. "Yeah, Sammy, I know." They were walking home at a dawdling pace, due to both Dean's crutches and the fact that Dean was in no hurry to get home and confront his father. He didn't want to be ridiculed any more due to his poor actions, as much as he knew he deserved it.

"Why'd you have to fight him?" Sam asked, in full petulant little brother mode. "I mean, you _know_ Dad doesn't like us to draw attention to ourselves."

"I know that too." Dean sighed, wishing he hadn't lost his temper at Kurt. He'd finally gone over the edge, and now that Dean was feeling better, he'd had no problem attacking him. Except for his ankle, of course, which had started throbbing uncontrollably, hence Dean using the crutches again. A quick jab to the windpipe had put Kurt down, whimpering uselessly. As much as he acted like he was an invincible force not to be reckoned with, he sure cried easily. He'd only landed one punch on Dean, giving the latter a black eyes that was to be explained to his dad.

Oh, and the fact that he was suspended for the rest of the week. No big deal, really.

"So why'd you do it?" Sam pestered. "Was he threatening you? Or me? He looked like a bully."

"He was just being a jerk, and I needed to deal with him." Dean looked at the ground. After humiliating him with all of his insults, yes, Dean had to deal with him. He hated being called stupid, even if it was true. Heck, his dad had called him stupid before, so why in the world couldn't it be true?

Dean tried to push the depressing thoughts out of his mind when he felt tears welling up in the back of his eyes. He couldn't cry. Winchesters don't cry. They suck it up and keep pushing on like whatever pain they were feeling was nothing.

Sam was looking at him oddly, but didn't say anything. They walked the rest of the trek in silence.

* * *

><p><em>Oh, yeah. Something <em>is _off._

John watched Dean, Dean who was now sporting a shiner, shuffle, crutches discarded, to the bathroom, closing and latching the door shut behind him. John stared in stunned silence. "What's up with him?" he asked Sam. "Who hit him?"

"Some jerk at school, I think." Sam shrugged. "I thought I saw him starting to cry when we were coming home, but I don't know." He looked imploringly at his father. "There's something really wrong with him, Dad."

If John hadn't known better, he would think that Sam was _blaming _him for whatever Dean was going through. John wanted to smack some sense into him. This was Dean's fault for getting in a fight, for drawing attention to himself. John needed to talk with him.

He knocked on the bathroom door. "Dean, open up. You have some explaining to do!"

No answer.

"Dean!" John knew he shouldn't raise his voice, with the motel walls being as thin as they were, but he was mad. First he learned that Dean was in a fight at school, and now the kid wasn't answering him. "Don't make me break down this door!"

"Leave me alone," came Dean's voice. John's eyes were about to pop out of his head. He might expect this kind of behavior from Sam, who was already showing signs of a rough adolescence, but definitely not from Dean. His _good son_ Dean.

"Dean Winchester." John made his voice dangerously low. "You get out here this instant or I swear..."

He left the threat hanging in the air. There was silence from the tiny restroom, and finally John heard the soft clicking of the lock. Dean was glaring at him. "What, Dad?" he spat out.

"What do you mean, 'What, Dad?'" John growled. He wiped a hand over his face. "Dean, I want to know what possessed you to think you had to fight this kid, jerk or not."

Dean's eyes flashed to Sam, but hurridly back to his dad. "He had it coming," he said, "though he punched first."

"Does it look like I care?" John sighed, exasperated. Dean's eyes were downcast, though John couldn't tell if it was from shame or fear of his dad's wrath. "Why did you fight him? I can't imagine it was just because he was annoying you."

"It's none of your business," Dean mumbled. "I took care of it."

"With violence?" Dean was hanging his head now so that John couldn't see his face. "Dean, what happened to staying under the radar? I would think you'd know this by now, but instead you continue to disappoint me."

Dean looked up at him, eyes wide with shock and... were those tears? John started to reach out a hand to him, but Dean retreated swiftly back into the bathroom.

"Dad, why do you have to do that?"

John turned to his other son, whom he'd forgotten was even there. "What?" he asked.

"You treat him like he's worthless, like he doesn't do everything you say and so much more!" Sam looked extremely angry, though John didn't blame him. "So he screws up one time. Big deal!"

"I..." John's voice trailed off, and he glanced wistfully at the bathroom door. As much as he hated to admit it, Sam was right and he was wrong. Dean was his good soldier. He'd been through so much in his short life, so much more than a teenaged boy should have to, and yet John was tearing him down. His boy deserved to be loved and cared for, like he had been when Mary was still alive.

Shaking his head in frustration, John tried opening the bathroom door. To his shock, he found it unlocked. Peeking in, he saw Dean curled up on the grimy floor, shoulders shaking. John's throat constricted painfully; his baby boy was crying.

He bent down and wrapped Dean in a warm hug, as he had when Dean was sick. To his relief, Dean leaned into his touch, sobbing into his shoulder. They sat together on the germ-infested restroom floor, and John felt like he could never let his son go. He was unsure of what to say, but was glad that his son was accepting his comforting motions.

"I'm so sorry, Dean," John whispered when Dean had calmed down a bit. "You _are not_ stupid. It's all my fault for saying so."

Dean looked up at his father with disbelief. "You're just saying that," he murmured, resting his head on John's chest. "I messed up, I'm sorry."

"Don't make me slap some sense into you," John threatened, though his tone was light. "You are anything but stupid, and it's my fault if I've made you think so. You deserve so much better than this, Dean, and I'm sorry. I love you so much, both of you."

Dean didn't say anything, instead pulling away from his dad's arms. He wiped madly at his eyes, as if trying to eradicate any evidence that he'd been crying. His new black eyes looked painful, though Dean hardly seemed to acknowledge it as he rested his head in his hands. "You really... I'm not stupid?" Dean stammered, not daring to look up at John.

"Of course." John wanted nothing more to hold Dean in his arms forever, to protect him from all the dangers of this world. From him. He hadn't realized Dean's self-esteem was this screwed up. "You do everything I tell you to, and you take my crap, all while taking care of Sammy. I don't know how you do it."

Suddenly, Dean hugging John again, shaking with pure emotional exhaustion. John didn't dare say anything, just held him. They stayed there for a while, until Dean finally stood up and said, "I'd better go do my homework and get dinner started. Sammy's probably hungry."

"I'll fix dinner," John cut in, knowing that Dean's idea of supper was probably some stale ramon noodles and a glass of tap water. "I'll head down to the diner and pick us up some grub. Bacon cheeseburger?"

Dean smirked. "Heavy on the onions."

John stood beside his son, giving him another one-armed squeeze. "Of course, how did I forget?"

"Cause you poison your mind with red Gatorade," Dean chuckled, a beautiful sound.

John grabbed his keys and was about to head out, when he heard Dean say, "Oh, Dad?"

"Yeah?" John turned to Dean, who was sitting at the table.

Dean smiled. "Thanks."

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><p><strong>So there it was! Thank you for anyone who read this, you guys rock.<strong>

**Please take a moment to leave a review, it would be very much appreciated.**


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